The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail

by Zane Grey

  Wetzel groaned.

  “This ain’t comfortable,” growled Zane, in a low whisper. “Them red devils are up to somethin’ bad. They’d better not move round over here.”

  The hunters, satisfied that the two isolated savages meant mischief, turned their gaze once more toward the maple grove.

  “Ah! Simon, you white traitor! See him, Lew, comin’ with his precious gang,” said Jonathan. “He’s got the whole thing fixed, you can plainly see that. Bill Elliott, McKee; and who’s that renegade with Jim Girty? I’ll allow he must be the fellar we heard was with the Chippewas. Tough lookin’ customer; a good mate fer Jim Girty! A fine lot of border hawks!”

  “Somethin’ comin’ off,” whispered Wetzel, as Zane’s low growl grew unintelligible.

  Jonathan felt, rather than saw, Wetzel tremble.

  “The missionaries are consultin’. Ah, there comes one! Which? I guess it’s Edwards. By gum! who’s that Injun stalkin’ over from the hostile bunch. Big chief, whoever he is. Blest if it ain’t Half King!”

  The watchers saw the chief wave his arm and speak with evident arrogance to Edwards, who, however, advanced to the platform and raised his hand to address the Christians.

  “Crack!”

  A shot rang out from the thicket. Clutching wildly at his breast, the missionary reeled back, staggered, and fell.

  “One of those skulkin’ redskins has killed Edwards,” said Zane. “But, no; he’s not dead! He’s getting up. Mebbe he ain’t hurt bad. By gum! there’s Young comin’ forward. Of all the fools!”

  It was indeed true that Young had faced the Indians. Half King addressed him as he had the other; but Young raised his hand and began speaking.

  “Crack!”

  Another shot rang out. Young threw up his hands and fell heavily. The missionaries rushed toward him. Mr. Wells ran round the group, wringing his hands as if distracted.

  “He’s hard hit,” hissed Zane, between his teeth. “You can tell that by the way he fell.”

  Wetzel did not answer. He lay silent and motionless, his long body rigid, and his face like marble.

  “There comes the other young fellar—Joe’s brother. He’ll get plugged, too,” continued Zane, whispering rather to himself than to his companion. “Oh, I hoped they’d show some sense! It’s noble for them to die for Christianity, but it won’t do no good. By gum! Heckewelder has pulled him back. Now, that’s good judgment!”

  Half King stepped before the Christians and addressed them. He held in his hand a black war club, which he wielded as he spoke.

  Jonathan’s attention was now directed from the maple grove to the hunter beside him. He had heard a slight metallic click, as Wetzel cocked his rifle. Then he saw the black barrel slowly rise.

  “Listen, Lew. Mebbe it ain’t good sense. We’re after Girty, you remember; and it’s a long shot from here—full three hundred yards.”

  “You’re right, Jack, you’re right,” answered Wetzel, breathing hard.

  “Let’s wait, and see what comes off.”

  “Jack, I can’t do it. It’ll make our job harder; but I can’t help it. I can put a bullet just over the Huron’s left eye, an’ I’m goin’ to do it.”

  “You can’t do it, Lew; you can’t! It’s too far for any gun. Wait! Wait!” whispered Jonathan, laying his hand on Wetzel’s shoulder.

  “Wait? Man, can’t you see what the unnamable villain is doin’?”

  “What?” asked Zane, turning his eyes again to the glade.

  The converted Indians sat with bowed heads. Half King raised his war club, and threw it on the ground in front of them.

  “He’s announcin’ the death decree!” hissed Wetzel.

  “Well! if he ain’t!”

  Jonathan looked at Wetzel’s face. Then he rose to his knees, as had Wetzel, and tightened his belt. He knew that in another instant they would be speeding away through the forest.

  “Lew, my rifle’s no good fer that distance. But mebbe yours is. You ought to know. It’s not sense, because there’s Simon Girty, and there’s Jim, the men we’re after. If you can hit one, you can another. But go ahead, Lew. Plug that cowardly redskin!”

  Wetzel knelt on one knee, and thrust the black rifle forward through the fern leaves. Slowly the fatal barrel rose to a level, and became as motionless as the immovable stones.

  Jonathan fixed his keen gaze on the haughty countenance of Half King as he stood with folded arms and scornful mien in front of the Christians he had just condemned.

  Even as the short, stinging crack of Wetzel’s rifle broke the silence, Jonathan saw the fierce expression of Half King’s dark face change to one of vacant wildness. His arms never relaxed from their folded position. He fell, as falls a monarch of the forest trees, a dead weight.

  CHAPTER XXV

  “Please do not preach today,” said Nell, raising her eyes imploringly to Jim’s face.

  “Nellie, I must conduct the services as usual. I can not shirk my duty, nor let these renegades see I fear to face them.”

  “I have such a terrible feeling. I am afraid. I don’t want to be left alone. Please do not leave me.”

  Jim strode nervously up and down the length of the room. Nell’s worn face, her beseeching eyes and trembling hands touched his heart. Rather than almost anything else, he desired to please her, to strengthen her; yet how could he shirk his duty?

  “Nellie, what is it you fear?” he asked, holding her hands tightly.

  “Oh, I don’t know what—everything. Uncle is growing weaker every day. Look at Mr. Young; he is only a shadow of his former self, and his anxiety is wearing Mr. Heckewelder out. He is more concerned than he dares admit. You needn’t shake your head, for I know it. Then those Indians who are waiting, waiting—for God only knows what? Worse than all to me, I saw that renegade, that fearful beast who made away with poor dear Kate!”

  Nell burst into tears, and leaned sobbing on Jim’s shoulder.

  “Nell, I’ve kept my courage only because of you,” replied Jim, his voice trembling slightly.

  She looked up quickly. Something in the pale face which was bent over her told her that now, if ever, was the time for a woman to forget herself, and to cheer, to inspire those around her.

  “I am a silly baby, and selfish!” she cried, freeing herself from his hold. “Always thinking of myself.” She turned away and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Go, Jim, do your duty; I’ll stand by and help you all a woman can.”

  * * *

  The missionaries were consulting in Heckewelder’s cabin. Zeisberger had returned that morning, and his aggressive, dominating spirit was just what they needed in an hour like this. He raised the downcast spirits of the ministers.

  “Hold the service? I should say we will,” he declared, waving his hands. “What have we to be afraid of?”

  “I do not know,” answered Heckewelder, shaking his head doubtfully. “I do not know what to fear. Girty himself told me he bore us no ill will; but I hardly believe him. All this silence, this ominous waiting perplexes, bewilders me.”

  “Gentlemen, our duty at least is plain,” said Jim, impressively. “The faith of these Christian Indians in us is so absolute that they have no fear. They believe in God, and in us. These threatening savages have failed signally to impress our Christians. If we do not hold the service they will think we fear Girty, and that might have a bad influence.”

  “I am in favor of postponing the preaching for a few days. I tell you I am afraid of Girty’s Indians, not for myself, for these Christians whom we love so well. I am afraid.” Heckewelder’s face bore testimony to his anxious dread.

  “You are our leader; we have but to obey,” said Edwards. “Yet I think we owe it to our converts to stick to our work until we are forced by violence to desist.”

  “Ah! What form will that violence take?” cried Heckewelder, his face white. “You cannot tell what these savages mean. I fear! I fear!”

  “Listen, Heckewelder, you must remember we had this to go through on
ce before,” put in Zeisberger earnestly. “In ’78 Girty came down on us like a wolf on the fold. He had not so many Indians at his beck and call as now; but he harangued for days, trying to scare us and our handful of Christians. He set his drunken fiends to frighten us, and he failed. We stuck it out and won. He’s trying the same game. Let us stand against him, and hold our services as usual. We should trust in God!”

  “Never give up!” cried Jim.

  “Gentlemen, you are right; you shame me, even though I feel that I understand the situation and its dread possibilities better than any one of you. Whatever befalls we’ll stick to our post. I thank you for reviving the spirit in my cowardly heart. We will hold the service today as usual, and to make it more impressive, each shall address the congregation in turn.”

  “And, if need be, we will give our lives for our Christians,” said Young, raising his pale face.

  * * *

  The deep mellow peals of the church bell awoke the slumbering echoes. Scarcely had its melody died away in the forest when a line of Indians issued from the church and marched toward the maple grove. Men, women, youths, maidens, and children.

  Glickhican, the old Delaware chief, headed the line. His step was firm, his head erect, his face calm in its noble austerity. His followers likewise expressed in their countenances the steadfastness of their belief. The maiden’s heads were bowed, but with shyness, not fear. The children were happy, their bright faces expressive of the joy they felt in the anticipation of listening to their beloved teachers.

  This procession passed between rows of painted savages, standing immovable, with folded arms, and somber eyes.

  No sooner had the Christians reached the maple grove, when from all over the clearing appeared hostile Indians, who took positions near the knoll where the missionaries stood.

  Heckewelder’s faithful little band awaited him on the platform. The converted Indians seated themselves as usual at the foot of the knoll. The other savages crowded closely on both sides. They carried their weapons, and maintained the same silence that had so singularly marked their mood of the last twenty-hour hours. No human skill could have divined their intention. This coldness might be only habitual reserve, and it might be anything else.

  Heckewelder approached at the same time that Simon Girty and his band of renegades appeared. With the renegades were Pipe and Half King. These two came slowly across the clearing, passed through the opening in the crowd, and stopped close to the platform.

  Heckewelder went hurriedly up to his missionaries. He seemed beside himself with excitement, and spoke with difficulty.

  “Do not preach today. I have been warned again,” he said, in a low voice.

  “Do you forbid it?” inquired Edwards.

  “No, no. I have not that authority, but I implore it. Wait, wait until the Indians are in better mood.”

  Edwards left the group, and, stepping upon the platform, faced the Christians.

  At the same moment Half King stalked majestically from before his party. He carried no weapon save a black, knotted war club. A surging forward of the crowd of savages behind him showed the intense interest which his action had aroused. He walked forward until he stood halfway between the platform and the converts. He ran his evil glance slowly over the Christians, and then rested it upon Edwards.

  “Half King’s orders are to be obeyed. Let the paleface keep his mouth closed,” he cried in the Indian tongue. The imperious command came as a thunderbolt from a clear sky. The missionaries behind Edwards stood bewildered, awaiting the outcome.

  But Edwards, without a moment’s hesitation, calmly lifted his hand and spoke.

  “Beloved Christians, we meet today as we have met before, as we hope to meet in——”

  “Spang!”

  The whistling of a bullet over the heads of the Christians, accompanied the loud report of a rifle. All present plainly heard the leaden missile strike. Edwards wheeled, clutching his side, breathed hard, and then fell heavily without uttering a cry. He had been shot by an Indian concealed in the thicket.

  For a moment no one moved, nor spoke. The missionaries were stricken with horror; the converts seemed turned to stone, and the hostile throng waited silently, as they had for hours.

  “He’s shot! He’s shot! Oh, I feared this!” cried Heckewelder, running forward. The missionaries followed him. Edwards was lying on his back, with a bloody hand pressed to his side.

  “Dave, Dave, how is it with you?” asked Heckewelder, in a voice low with fear.

  “Not bad. It’s too far out to be bad, but it knocked me over,” answered Edwards, weakly. “Give me—water.”

  They carried him from the platform, and laid him on the grass under a tree.

  Young pressed Edwards’ hand; he murmured something that sounded like a prayer, and then walked straight upon the platform, as he raised his face, which was sublime with a white light.

  “Paleface! Back!” roared Half King, as he waved his war club.

  “You Indian dog! Be silent!”

  Young’s clear voice rolled out on the quiet air so imperiously, so powerful in its wonderful scorn and passion, that the hostile savages were overcome by awe, and the Christians thrilled anew with reverential love.

  Young spoke again in a voice which had lost its passion, and was singularly sweet in its richness.

  “Beloved Christians, if it is God’s will that we must die to prove our faith, then as we have taught you how to live, so we can show you how to die——”

  “Spang!”

  Again a whistling sound came with the bellow of an overcharged rifle; again the sickening thud of a bullet striking flesh.

  Young fell backward from the platform.

  The missionaries laid him beside Edwards, and then stood in shuddering silence. A smile shone on Young’s pale face; a stream of dark blood welled from his breast. His lips moved; he whispered:

  “I ask no more—God’s will.”

  Jim looked down once at his brother missionaries; then with blanched face, but resolute and stern, he marched toward the platform.

  Heckewelder ran after him, and dragged him back.

  “No! no! no! My God! Would you be killed? Oh! I tried to prevent this!” cried Heckewelder, wringing his hands.

  One long, fierce, exultant yell pealed throughout the grove. It came from those silent breasts in which was pent up hatred; it greeted this action which proclaimed victory over the missionaries.

  All eyes turned on Half King. With measured stride he paced to and fro before the Christian Indians.

  Neither cowering nor shrinking marked their manner; to a man, to a child, they rose with proud mien, heads erect and eyes flashing. This mighty chief with his bloodthirsty crew could burn the Village of Peace, could annihilate the Christians, but he could never change their hope and trust in God.

  “Blinded fools” cried Half King. “The Huron is wise; he tells no lies. Many moons ago he told the Christians they were sitting halfway between two angry gods, who stood with mouths open wide and looking ferociously at each other. If they did not move back out of the road they would be ground to powder by the teeth of one or the other, or both. Half King urged them to leave the peaceful village, to forget the paleface God; to take their horses, and flocks, and return to their homes. The Christians scorned the Huron King’s counsel. The sun has set for the Village of Peace. The time has come. Pipe and the Huron are powerful. They will not listen to the paleface God. They will burn the Village of Peace. Death to the Christians!”

  Half King threw the black war club with a passionate energy on the grass before the Indians.

  They heard this decree of death with unflinching front. Even the children were quiet. Not a face paled, not an eye was lowered.

  Half King cast their doom in their teeth. The Christians eyed him with unspoken scorn.

  “My God! My God! It is worse than I thought!” moaned Heckewelder. “Utter ruin! Murder! Murder!”

  In the momentary silence which followed his ou
tburst, a tiny cloud of blue-white smoke came from the ferns overhanging a cliff.

  “Crack!”

  All heard the shot of a rifle; all noticed the difference between its clear, ringing intonation and the loud reports of the other two. All distinctly heard the zip of a bullet as it whistled over their heads.

  All? No, not all. One did not hear that speeding bullet. He who was the central figure of this tragic scene, he who had doomed the Christians might have seen that tiny puff of smoke which heralded his own doom, but before the ringing report could reach his ears a small blue hole appeared as if by magic, over his left eye, and pulse, and sense, and life had fled forever.

  Half King, great, cruel chieftain, stood still for an instant as if he had been an image of stone; his haughty head lost its erect poise, the fierceness seemed to fade from his dark face, his proud plume waved gracefully as he swayed to and fro, and then fell before the Christians, inert and lifeless.

  No one moved; it was as if no one breathed. The superstitious savages awaited fearfully another rifle shot, another lightning stroke, another visitation from the palefaces’ God.

  But Jim Girty, with a cunning born of his terrible fear, had recognized the ring of that rifle. He had felt the zip of a bullet which could just as readily have found his brain as Half King’s. He had stood there as fair a mark as the cruel Huron, yet the Avenger had not chosen him. Was he reserved for a different fate? Was not such a death too merciful for the frontier Deathshead? He yelled in his craven fear:

  “Le Vent de la Mort!”

  The well-known, dreaded appellation aroused the savages from a fearful stupor into a fierce manifestation of hatred. A tremendous yell rent the air. Instantly the scene changed.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  In the confusion the missionaries carried Young and Edwards into Mr. Wells’ cabin. Nell’s calm, white face showed that she had expected some such catastrophe as this, but she of all was the least excited. Heckewelder left them at the cabin and hurried away to consult Captain Williamson. While Zeisberger, who was skilled in surgery, attended to the wounded men, Jim barred the heavy door, shut the rude, swinging windows, and made the cabin temporarily a refuge from prowling savages.